Ancestors

In the night of our leaving, ancestors are worried.

Anxious, pacing back and forth

through heaven’s hallway. I hear

the clicking of wooden sandals.

Wishing us well, they are lighting oil lamps,

each of them and waving

through the sky’s window. The night is

unusually starry. Of course

we are in a hurry. The war already on,

close to our home. We hear gunshots, blasts.

But I think the ancestors’ love

is shielding us, their breathings like blessings

stroking our hair.

Our cattle and dogs follow us

up to the farm’s periphery

as our bullock buggy rolls out

through the mud roads.

The ancestors are coming down

from above to trail us till we go

beyond harm’s way. Their silhouettes,

bare-chested, emaciated, a map of our nation,

blend into the roadside shadows.

---------- by Sankar Roy

Sankar Roy, originally from India, is an American poet, editor, translator and multimedia artist living near Pittsburgh, Sankar's biographical information can be found in Wikipedia .

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